


Hush, Hush

by Straumoy



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: Drama, Gen, Science Fiction, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straumoy/pseuds/Straumoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mandalorian Wars rage on; all sides sweating, bleeding and dying on distant battlefields. In a lull between battles, Revan's most trusted general takes time to recover. Despite her injuries, the general asks her faithful aide to come by her quarters, so she can inspect her troops. In silence the two traverse from her quarters, deep into the belly of the ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush, Hush

**Author's Note:**

> I did all 3 prompt challenges in a single story; death without dialogue, random word (Meperidine) and the story is told backwards.

They say that the dead have no concern for the affairs of the living. I can’t help but agree, for if the dead are not stirred by the sobs of the general, I do not know what will.

As I stand still as a statue, firm in my post I hear without listening, the vails and cries of the general scrape at the ceiling like metal talons. Horrifyingly hollow, the walls of the cargo hold throw her despair around like a cold echo. Thinking back, I can't say if the general staggered and fell to her knees because of the meperidine she took earlier finally kicking in or the blunt emotional impact of reality.

You might ask why a Jedi general would cry inside a cargo hold. In the light of recent events, we've stop storing cargo here. Right now and for the foreseeable future it holds the fruits of our sacrifices; it’s a morgue. Here they lay, the dead in their black bags, side by side, row after row.  

I cannot for the life of me phantom what it is like for a Jedi to face so much death. Tall tales say that they sense the world differently than the… “normal.” Could it be that she felt it even before she stepped into the room, triggering the pale blue lights that she knew? Or was it further back?

Perhaps it was when she hesitated in the doorway, after the clanking sounds of the mechanics inside the cargo hold door banged and echoed as they slammed and slid over and under one another had fallen silent. No one would judge her or hold it against her for hesitate in pressing that final button to open the door.

Yet she did, I recall it vividly; as soon as the card was slipped through the reader and she dotted in the code her thumb rested on the execute button, trembling. Halfway she’d glanced over her shoulder, assuring herself that I was by her side.  If I’d spoken up then, would she’d stopped, called it a day and gone back to her quarters?

No, that is not right. Her stride from the elevator to the door was firm and steady. It caught me by surprise to be honest, given her injuries and the medication. I see now more than ever that it is foolish to underestimate a Jedi. As per protocol I kept a good three steps behind her and paused, since I do not have the clearance to the cargo hold.

There was nothing unusual in the cargo elevator ride down. It was large and barren like an unfurnished bedroom and went down without any stops. No wonder, the rush hour for going down to the cargo hold was over for now. The dead were put to rest, but considering what we’d seen in the infirmary, it is not unreasonable to expect more will join them the following days.

A stray thought catches my attention; in the elevator I wanted to tell her how much I hated this part and that she didn’t need to do this. Though nothing came out, not a sound. I've never had a way with words. They say that through the Force, Jedi can feel many things form their surroundings, from their enemies and from their peers. If the general could sense my disapproval, she’d ignored it. 

She slumps over to her side, curling up like a child heaving for breath between her sobs. Doctor’s orders were to keep her on a straight diet and not to upset her, emotional turmoil was not compatible with her medication. Was it a mistake then, a mistake on my end to give her the medication?

But what was I supposed to do back then? Let her grit her teeth through the pain? The general was bleeding, I saw it myself and she confirmed it as well. I’d given her two tablets of meperidine; she’d chewed them both to powder and made disgusted faces over the horrible taste. I've tried to suggest that she should just swallow them before, but the general would have none of it. She hates taking pills, even with the assistance of water or whatever sweet drink you try to tempt her with.

There were no immediate ill effects from the first tablet as far as I could tell; then again I’m no doctor. Aside from the disgusted faces that were accompanied with hoarse hisses and smacking of her mouth. It is possible that I found it refreshing to see her like this, she looked so human; these rare moments when I caught a glimpse of the woman beneath the general, beneath the Jedi.

Was that it? That one moment of distraction that made me loose some vital clue? No, that doesn’t make sense. She’d looked at the tablets, pale and white in my palm before her eyes landed on my face. Her frown was an odd mix of disapproval and reluctance. She knew I was right, considering her state she would need it if she insists on seeing this to the end.

If it’s not the morgue or the medication, then what have I done wrong? Have I done anything wrong at all? I wish I knew for I can feel her pain, her agony leaking from her and into me. Perhaps I should have stopped after infirmary visit?  I’d looked up and around for a nurse when she started to bleed, but her fingers had latched on to my chin, steering my face to hers.

No words, just an angry glare that made it crystal clear that there would be no interruptions. The bandage could wait, no it  _would_ wait or she'd send me off this ship fast enough to make my head spin. I suppose it is possible that I’d triggered such a response when I’d stepped close and folded my fingers around her hand as soon as I spotted her bleeding.

That might have been it. It was a tense, emotional moment for her. We’d end by the bed of a soldier, basic grunt more or less completely spent. The poor lad had lost both legs already and would probably breathe through a hole in his throat for the rest of his life. He’d left his world thirty-one months ago. He was wounded in his first campaign. He has had tropical diseases. He half-sleeps at night and gouges Mandalorians out of holes all day. Two-thirds of his company had been killed or wounded. He would have returned to attack this morning if it weren't for his injuries.

How much can a human being endure? How much can a Jedi endure? Then there were his eyes; a pair of deep wells devoid of emotion. The look in his eyes was like the life was sucked out of them, yet she’d met that hollow stare. With a soft touch, the general had stroked his hair with an authentic affection. A nurse had comes up to us, looked at the readings on the instruments and shook her head; another one that would not make it through the day. 

This was probably where I should have been firm and escorted her back to her room. Right after she’d leaned down and given him a gentle kiss on his forehead as a quiet tear trekked down her cheek. That was my clue, my moment, my chance and I missed it.

As the general rose to her full height, she snorted in a deep, sharp breath. I could feel her raging pain and emotional turmoil as if standing by the glowing embers of a once grand fire. Her hands curled together to hard fists, trembling with tension. That’s when the bleeding started and even if I missed the tear, the dripping blood should have been even more obvious. I missed neither and in hindsight it is inexcusable.

The million things I wished I could have said earlier as we entered the infirmary, some darn quote from one poet or another that would somehow comfort the general wouldn’t have mattered. She probably looked down on me since all I could muster was a dry swallow. I should know, since she caught me in a sideways glance, measuring me up or reading my face like the open book it undoubtedly was.

A raised eyebrow was all I got and a word would have slipped out had she not stepped away from me. The Force knows what she’d done if she’d hear me. Honestly, I don’t think even the Force knows or wants to for that matter.

Perhaps her disapproval of me started earlier? Like when the door to the infirmary slid open and the great hall that was the main infirmary lied before our feet. Doctors and nurses half ran between the dozens and dozens of beds filled with the injured and the dying. Subconsciously I’d brought one hand underneath my nose, the smell of sterile medical equipment, medicine and blood had hit us like the clogged air from a sauna.

I was so busy taking it all in that I didn’t notice the general’s reaction. At least, I don’t recall anything in particular. I try to recall the events that followed, but all that comes to mind is the sound of our footsteps. They were barely heard over the bleeding instruments, pumps that breathe for the sleeping and the whimpers for just one more shot of painkillers. 

Was it arrogance on my part then? The small pride I felt when her composure changed, because I spotted it before we arrived at the infirmary? It’s was subtle change, blink or be distracted and you'd miss it, but it was there. If I were to describe it, it seems as if her veins were suddenly filled with lead.

I thought I knew the general, I really did. As crewmembers and staff crossed and meet on our path, they stood aside and gave their leader a salute. They, like me, had a great deal of respect for the general; the genuine type of respect that she'd earned by being generous and kind to everyone under her command, regardless of rank and file. She was often seen down with the engineer Bao-Dur, talking as if they were lifelong friends on equal footing. 

She'd told me once that the bigger things in life a made up by the smaller things, like nails in a wooden house. I guess I felt closer than most to the general because of this quick exchange of words. This might possible be the seed that grew into overconfidence that I knew her so well that I would let her expose herself to this torment, confident that she could take it.

In the end though, it’s all smoke and mirrors; keeping up appearances for the troops and crew. I know that, I’ve been behind the curtain as recent as this morning. She’d looked up at me, since I stand a good head taller than her as she clung to the collar of my jacket. Behind the strained mask of pain, inside her rich eyes she told me all that I needed to know. This was something she wants to do and she would do it her way. If I don't like it then I better get the hell out of her way.

That should have been the first flag. Easy to miss because we were in private, but instead of protesting I placed my hands on hers. I can still recall the nervous swallowing as I stood underneath her gaze. All I did was nod, not one word or gesture of protest. The death grip she had on my collar softened before her hands slid down, hanging exhausted by her side.

You see, it is hard to come up with any intelligent, let alone comforting to say when you see someone you care about are in pain, pressing the constrains of their bandages just from rising from the floor. But as I’ve admitted earlier, words have never really been my strength, so I’ve let my actions speak for me. Silent actions, like standing firm and faithful on my post as she uses my uniform jacket to climb up from the floor.

I entertain the thought of the contradiction that is the general; Revan’s most trusted general, strong in the Force, knighted Jedi and yet at the end of the day, so very, very human. Looking back on this morning, when I first came to her quarters, a memory that had evaded me so far comes to my attention.

The general was sitting on the floor in her quarters; her room was stripped down to the functional and practical, nothing that would otherwise betray her status or an appetite for anything beyond basic comfort. I had stood silent in the room, patient and understanding as I waited for her to beckon me to her side. For a while she just sat quietly as a spring morning, meditating.

It is in this moment, this tranquil moment that a faint whisper of sorts dripped into my mind. No real words mind you, more of a feeling or sensation. It was presence that held no thoughts, no teachings; it was as if the general was just… there, unspoken.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, feel free to let me know what you think :)


End file.
